


One Day, in the Next Life

by ninepointfive



Category: TWICE (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Feudal Japan, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - World War II, Childhood Friends, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Historical Inaccuracy, Non-Linear Narrative, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 04:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21009908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninepointfive/pseuds/ninepointfive
Summary: Reincarnation is not always kind.Or: Sana and Mina—through World War II, feudal Japan, present day, and space.





	One Day, in the Next Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dubfu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dubfu/gifts).

> Inspired by the following quote:
> 
> _"If you compare Mina with an animal, she's a penguin. She has a loneliness in her so she follows humans like a penguin. She has to have someone beside her. Should I say that she gives me vibes to protect her?"_ \- Sana Minatozaki
> 
> Also loosely inspired by [25 Lives by tongari](http://www.shousetsubangbang.com/mirror/25-lives/).
> 
> -
> 
> Just a small heads up: this fic contains a bit of Japanese terminology. I've tried to include definitions for everything that may seem out there, so if you're unfamiliar with a term, you may hover over it for a quick description! Unfortunately, this feature does not work for mobile users, but I will provide definitions at the end notes as well!
> 
> Written for the TFG annual fic fest. Also dedicated to my pal and beta Becca, whose advice and feedback have been invaluable to my writing process. Hopefully this is a suitable gift (aka very, very late Secret Santa replacement) for you, my friend!

_"Birth is not a beginning; death is not an end. There is existence without limitation; there is continuity without a starting-point. Existence without limitation is Space. Continuity without a starting point is Time. There is birth, there is death, there is issuing forth, there is entering in."_

\- Zhuangzi

* * *

It takes a bullet to the gut and the crack of her ribs for the memories to rush in like ocean tides, visions of past lives crashing ashore in violent waves, flowing in tandem with the pulse of her decaying heartbeat.

When her body hits the blood-soaked ground, debris and shrapnel cutting into her thighs, she remembers several things all at once: foremost, the agony of getting stabbed in the stomach. Then, after the initial shock of pain: soft hands tracing the callouses of her fingertips, the barest scent of jasmine, the taste of green tea on a cold Tuesday morning, warm eyes that remind her of sunlight at dawn. A cute mole perched askew on a dainty nose. There’s a name, too, that she tries to sound out through quivering lips. What comes out instead is a fit of coughs and a dollop of blood.

A bomb explodes in a nearby trench, and the charred earthen dust that invades her lungs pulls her back into the present, where aircrafts drop bombs and civilian parents drop dead children. Enemies waving American flags flank her allies with a flash grenade, but her voice is too torn to shout a warning. The sky lights ablaze. Her vision goes white.

She’s a spy, she remembers, vaguely. The memories collide against her skull, timelines twisting together like an inosculation of tree branches, separate lives coiling into one. She’s a spy, dying in the middle of a war zone, but somehow even in the midst of the battlefield—through land mines detonating on tanks, through the earsplitting gunshots of semiautomatic rifles—it gets harder and harder to convince herself that she’s not a shinobi fighting on the turfs of another war-torn battleground, fending off an invasion from a rivaling clan to protect her liege.

As the seconds tick away, as the sounds of war fade from her consciousness, dimming like a muffler over her ears, she remembers something happier: a warm, lazy afternoon, sitting side by side a pretty girl she’d been in love with since childhood, watching as her delicate fingers braid their locks of hair together. So this is what desertion feels like, she thinks. She’s not trudging through marshes to escape, but she’s still swimming away in a sea of fleeting memories, chasing after phantoms of a touch she’s never even felt in this lifetime. This is what marks the end of an agent, isn’t it, to remember yourself, to remember home.

The strength in her wrists gives out, and her gun slips out of her grasp, tumbling down into a ditch where her fallen comrades rest. Another flash bang explodes, sparking the glint of the dog tag on her uniform, the weathered name searing into her vision: _S—n— M—n—z… _When her eyelids finally shut, her mind takes her back to another far more peaceful scene: delicate fingers sewing needle and thread through cloth, under and over, under and over…

-

The first thing she wakes up to is a sharp, searing pain on her stomach, but what really gets her is the sight of delicate fingers sewing needle and thread through her flesh—under and over, under and over.

Her first instinct is to bolt upright, but as if her caretaker knows this, there’s a hand already on her shoulder, gently easing her back down on the tattered mattress. _A mattress_, she realizes, feeling the cotton sheets rub against the skin of her back—she’s lying down on a mattress, not on the grounds of a broken battlefield. The lack of sound outside the modest cottage she finds herself in is enough testament to that fact, but something about the place feels comforting, nostalgic—the subtle scent of incense and green tea mingling with the burning firewood, the sewing machine next to the bedside.

Her eyes strain against the dim overhead lighting, and the first thing she notices above her is the young woman and the tiny mole atop her nose, achingly familiar.

The second thing she notices is the patch of the American flag right smack on the shoulder of her uniform.

Just as she starts to panic, the woman offers her a sympathetic smile that sets her right back at ease. “I’m glad you’re awake, but please, you need to rest,” the other woman says, in perfect Japanese.

“But you’re the enemy,” she rasps out, and she hates how hoarse her voice sounds, as though her vocal cords have been stretched out and serrated.

“I am a medical professional,” the woman insists, returning her focus back to the stitch on her side. 

Before she can protest that enemies and medical professionals aren’t mutually exclusive, the woman elaborates, “I am a trained field medic, specifically. While it is my job to care for my own people, I would also like to believe that denying _anyone_ of care is wrong, no matter where that person may come from.”

She relents at the explanation, closing her eyes, because everything hurts too much but mostly because the woman’s delicate yet firm voice—down to every lilt and her soothing timbre—is a dizzying echo of a distant past, one that both is and is not her own. There’s no question that it’s _her_, the woman from her disenthralled memories, whose fingers now no longer sew needle through cloth but through open wounds. Her hair is short this time, cut just past her chin. Practical. It suits her.

“Isn’t this treason?” she asks, suddenly aware of how perilous it is for the woman—an American medic—to house a Japanese spy. How ironic, that they would be on opposing sides of a war in this lifetime, when in past lives she’s always promised to protect her. How shameful, that she’s the one getting saved this time around. 

She watches as the medic pulls the needle through her skin one last time, wincing as the surgical sutures tighten against her stomach. For the first time since awakening, she realizes that the pain is bearable now, the once excruciating chasm of a wound on her side ebbing to a dull, almost pleasant throb. Definitely the work of morphine, she thinks, noting the piles of discarded syrettes on the floor, their pointed tips crusted with dried blood that is no doubt her own. 

The woman gives a bitter smile. “Perhaps it is treason. But for some reason, I felt compelled to save you,” the woman says, clipping the stitches with her scissors. She procures a roll of gauze from the floor, wrapping the fabric around her waist.

Now there’s a more honest answer. She hums, staring in fascination as her blood seeps through the open weave. “That’s dangerous, you know,” she says—chastises. “Even if you did save me, you have no way of knowing if I would turn on you.”

“Bold words coming from someone confined to bed and at the mercy of said caretaker,” the medic retorts. “I could take back everything I’ve done here. In fact, it would be wise of me to.” Then, in English: “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“What.”

“Or is ‘don’t bite the hand that feeds you’ more apt?” she mulls to herself, running a sanitizing cloth across her equipment, the scissors and needles all leaving smears of deep red across the white fabric.

The stench of blood against antiseptic stings her nose. “English idioms are outside my realm of knowledge, you know. And I do have to say it’s odd for someone of Japanese descent to side with the Americans.”

“Born and raised in Texas, U.S.A.—even though, yes, I am of Japanese descent,” the woman explains, slipping back into the mother language. “Although sometimes I feel that way, too—that it’s odd. Like I was born in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“But maybe it is the right time, if I get to be saved by a beautiful woman like you,” she manages to quip, despite her situation—or perhaps _because _of her situation. Maybe it’s because she’s on the brink of death and there’s nothing to lose. Or maybe it’s just that she’s high on morphine.

The woman shoots her an incredulous look, but the quirk of her lips betrays her amusement. “Right time for you, perhaps.”

“What is your name?” she asks, because it’s been killing her, to have the answer just on the tip of her tongue but not fully grasp it.

“Myoui. Sharon Myoui.”

“_Sharon_?” It hurts to even breathe, but laughter bubbles out of her lips anyway.

The woman smirks, as though expecting her reaction.

The smugness wears off over a few seconds, though, when a more concerned expression molds itself in place: the biting of her lower lip, the taut wrinkles on her forehead. The woman is staring at her now, assessing her with wary eyes. She grasps her sleeve, fabric bunching in her fist. “But you might know me as Myoui Mina, is that correct?”

So the pretenses are dropped now. The question is a test—an inquiry. An attempt to face the elephant in the room.

“Mina…” She closes her eyes, breathing slowly, letting the sound of her name sink in. _Myoui Mina_. She’s twenty-eight now. She’s gone twenty-eight years without ever hearing that name in this lifetime, without even _knowing _it. It’s been too long.

“Yes, I think so,” she says finally, and the woman—_Mina_—inhales, a relieved smile adorning her face. “That sounds about right. I’m—”

“Minatozaki Sana,” Mina answers for her. She leans over to grasp her hand. “I know. I found your I.D. tag in your uniform.”

She intertwines their fingers together, marveling at how calloused Mina’s skin is in this time. It’s unusual for someone as dainty as she remembers. A medic’s life must not be easy. 

“Minatozaki… Sana?” she repeats, testing the name on her tongue, but the syllables come out sluggishly one by one, as though being pulled from a vat of molasses. “That’s just the name I came up for myself when I was enlisted as a spy.”

Mina laughs, finally, showing off that beautiful, gummy smile. “So, what is your name this time around?” she asks.

She furrows her eyebrows. “My name… It’s… I’m—”

A sharp wave of nausea rolls down her body. Her vision swims, memories knocking like a hammer against her skull: ripe peaches on a tree, green tea, Mina’s soft lips against her forehead. Against her cheeks, her mouth. Everything in her head just feels so crammed, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that don’t fit quite right, and it’s impossible to think when all she can recall is kissing a girl—_this_ girl—in another life. “Actually, I don’t… I don’t remember my name. Not in this life. But I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“I suppose it doesn’t. You’ll always be my Sana.”

It’s unfair, how obvious it is that Mina remembers more than she does. Has probably remembered for a long time. Yet again, in this life, she’s still playing catch-up. It makes sense now, why Mina—_Sharon_ of this time—would dodge a rain of bullets for her, a war enemy, and nurse her back to health. How foolish. But then again, so is she, entrusting her life to someone who has very much been a stranger for her entire life, save for this very moment. Perhaps that is the curse of having more than one life: no future incarnation is truly its own, and the past always takes precedence.

“I’ve returned,” Sana says, smiling, bringing her hand to caress Mina’s cheek, fingers pressing against the underside of her jaw.

When Mina leans down to brush back her bangs and plant a gentle kiss on her forehead, Sana lets the feeling of the amalgamation of dozens of past lives wash over her, like gentle tides lapping at a shore. Mina has done this exact same thing hundreds of times before, and the warmth of her lips has always left Sana all flustered and bashful. This time, though, it is a comfort. It feels like coming home.

“Welcome back,” Mina murmurs into the space between them, and Sana closes her eyes.

* * *

_Backwards._

Sana is only ten when she’s assigned her life’s purpose.

“You are a Minatozaki. Woman or not, you are to serve the esteemed Myoui household as their silent guardian, like your late family before you,” her instructor tells her, handing her a wooden sword.

The sword is cumbersome in her grip, hilt as wide as her wrists. Her body sways to and fro as she tries to readjust to the extra burden, foot sliding forward and zipping across the tatami mat as she rebalances her weight, posture lowered and knees bent. Though her palms are sweaty from both the unrelenting swell of summer heat and the judgment of the Myoui family on the other side of the room, her grasp on the sword still holds strong. In her peripheral vision, she sees the head of the Myoui household—Myoui Nagayoshi-sama, the revered daimyo of the largest territory in Kobe—assessing her unblinkingly with a piercing gaze. He nods approvingly, though, and her chest swells with pride, quelling the jitters dancing in her belly.

“As I thought,” her instructor says, stroking his chin as he circles her, eyes sharp as he assesses her stance. “Minatozaki-san has a natural gift. While this is her first time holding a sword, she still has already assumed the correct posture and grip—all by instinct. With practice and dedication, I am certain she will become a great asset to our clan.” He nods. “Truly, she is a Minatozaki daughter. Her family would have been proud.” He draws his own wooden sword, coming face to face with her.

Sana’s grip tightens at the mention of her family. The Minatozaki clan—a group of notorious shinobi who had served the Myoui clan—now dead, all within one day. It’d been a vicious coup organized by turncoats hidden in the ranks, an attempt to cripple the power of the Myoui clan by cutting off its right hand. It chills her to think that, had it not been for the fact that she is a bastard daughter, abandoned by her father on the outskirts of the rural slums, she would have been murdered in cold blood right along with them. A bitter end to a powerful legacy.

Illegitimate as she is, though, Sana is the last of their bloodline. In a twisted way, she is grateful for the death of her family—if she can even call them that, given how they’d heartlessly discarded her. If not for their downfall, Myoui Nagayoshi-sama likely would not have gone through such great lengths to find her, sending his vassals to rake through the poor countryside villages of Osaka.

Hot sweat rolls down her cheek. Outside, the cicadas buzz with restless energy. The humid air that wafts into the training room clings onto the moisture on her skin like a damp cloth, and her legs toast inside her floor-length hakama as though trapped in a furnace. Summers back in Osaka were unbearable, but here in Kobe is no better.

“Come, Minatozaki-san. Strike at me,” her instructor commands.

Sana gulps, eyes darting to the side. She catches a glimpse of the Myoui heiress—a pretty, delicate girl no older than she is, clutching the sleeve hem of her mother’s kimono. The worry lines on the girl’s forehead disappear when they make eye contact, her lips curving into a shy smile, and something in Sana’s chest twists at the sight. She tears her eyes away, training them ahead instead, right in between her teacher’s brows, gritting her teeth. He nods once, and she launches herself forward.

‘_I will protect that smile_’ is the last thing she thinks before she falls flat on her face.

-

The bruise that blossoms on her forehead after that incident lasts for an entire week, and the shame burns for even longer. But each day, the Myoui heiress—Mina, she insists on being called, despite Sana’s objections—tends to the swelling with ointments and the gentle press of her fingertips each morning until it goes away.

-

The next time Sana develops a fat bruise on her forehead, it is summer again and she is thirteen and stupid, having fallen off a tree from an attempt to pick the plumpest, healthiest peach for her liege.

“Sana!” Mina shouts, her knitting needles and yarn dropping with a loud clack as she rushes to Sana’s side. They’d been relaxing quietly together under the cloudless afternoon sky, a rare opportunity to enjoy the break away from their never-ending duties. But of course, Sana has to break the peace with something as ridiculous as this. “Are you alright?”

Sana rolls to her back, feeling the crunch of leaves on the underside of her wing bones. Her fingers massage at the burgeoning bump right on the center between her bangs. “That depends,” she says, clutching the well-earned peach and extending it toward Mina, grinning. “Will you eat this and like it?”

Mina rolls her eyes. “You are so dramatic,” she scolds, though she accepts the peach anyway. “I’ll get the ointments for you.”

“Later,” Sana insists, grabbing Mina’s hand and pulling her down next to her. In the back of her head, she could imagine the other Myoui household servants gasping scandalously at the casual way she treats Mina. But they are alone and Mina does not seem to mind, so that’s what matters. “I want to stay like this for a while.”

Wordlessly, Mina nods, sitting herself next to Sana, propping herself against the tree. She takes the first bite out of the peach, humming appreciatively. “It’s good,” she says, holding the fruit out to Sana. “Share this with me?”

The fact that her liege is feeding her is an irony that’s not lost on Sana. But again, they are alone, so she does not find it in herself to care very much. She sits herself up, chomping down on the peach, her eyebrows shooting to her forehead as the sweet, savory juice fills her mouth. “It really is,” she agrees.

As they take turns devouring it with each bite, the size of the peach eventually dwindles down to its core. Once the last of the fruit is gone, Sana tosses the seed at the riverbank, letting the current carry it downstream.

“That was so worth it.”

Mina laughs. “If you say so. Thank you, Sana.” She wraps her arms around Sana’s waist, hugging her close.

Sana flushes at their proximity but does not protest. Mina smells nice, like jasmine flowers. They both scooch to a more comfortable position, their backs resting against the trunk of the peach tree. “You’re welcome, Myoui-sama.”

“It’s just you and I, Sana. Call me Mina,” she reminds her for the nth time.

“Okay, Mina.”

They stay like that for a while, sitting side by side. It’s a nice change of pace, being together like this. It isn’t very often that they get to enjoy each other’s presence in companionable silence, listening only to birdsong and the stream of the river, the splash of salmon as they jump up from the water. In moments like these, it’s easy to forget that one day, their hands will be drenched in the blood of murder and subterfuge.

For now, though, they are at peace.

Eventually, as the sun dips low in the sky, Sana’s eyes drift closed. The tendrils of sleep overtake her. Her head lolls to the right, coming to rest on Mina’s shoulder.

In the barest wisps of her consciousness, Sana feels Mina braiding their locks of hair together.

-

Thankfully, at sixteen, Sana learns how to pick peaches without the precarious pursuit of climbing on trees. With a quick flick of her wrist, she tosses her shuriken toward the branches of the tree, the blade slicing through the stem of the plumpest, healthiest peach with startling accuracy.

Embarrassingly, though, as she darts to retrieve the peach before it falls on the ground, her forehead connects with a low branch, twigs snapping with a sickening crack at the collision. Yet again, she finds herself lying shamefully on the ground, groaning in pain and clutching her growing bruise.

“Again, Sana? What am I going to do with you?” Mina laments, crouching next to Sana’s prone body. “You come from a lineage of deadly warriors; you’re a highly regarded kunoichi-in-training yourself—yet, you are so _clumsy_ in the most unexpected ways.”

With a surprising show of recovery, as though she hadn’t just run head first into a branch like an utter imbecile, Sana rolls over and gets on her knees. She dips her head low before Mina in apology, her body all but flush to the ground as she spreads her arms forward, palms up. “Forgive me, Myou—”

“Mina,” she corrects, again, heaving a tired sigh like she’s had to deal with the same exact situation a hundred times before. “And please rise, Sana. It’s just the two of us. You needn’t be so formal. Or dramatic.”

Sana scrambles to her feet, dusting the leaves off her sleeves. “Still,” she protests, “I’m sorry that I keep burdening you with—”

“It’s not a _burden_, Sana,” Mina says, pulling out a tub of freshly mixed ointment, the scent of various herbal remedies diffusing in the air. It’s a tried and true Myoui clan recipe: a concoction of beeswax, oil, and the finest lavender petals imported from the northern islands of Ezochi. “You could never be a burden. You care for me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do!” she says, scandalized that Mina could think any different. “You think I’d humiliate myself in front of just anyone, trying to get a peach? Not only once, but twice.”

The corner of Mina’s lips twitches upward. “Then, is it not fair that I should be able to extend the same sort of care to you? You’re always looking out for me, Sana. I want to help you sometimes, too, even if I’m not a fighter like you are.”

Sana wrinkles her nose, shriveling at the memory of Myoui Nagayoshi-sama—Mina’s stern old father—glaring at her reproachfully, reminding her of her place. A liege, looking after a vassal. It’s a flagrant breach of conduct, one that both she and Mina have pushed and stretched the limits of, time and time again.

“I suppose you have a point, but—”

Mina presses a finger to Sana’s mouth. “But nothing. Honestly, one day your arrogance will get the better of you, and I’ll be the one who has to save you. Now come here.”

Chastised, Sana bows her head down and closes her eyes. Even after Mina draws her hand away, the skin of her lips still burns, like it’s been grazed by the lick of a flame from a freshly stoked campfire. She waits obediently. But instead of the slimy smear of ointment she expects, there’s a gentle softness pressed against her forehead.

Sana squeaks and recoils back, hand flying up to her forehead where the other girl’s lips had just been. The flame erupts into an inferno. “M-Mina!”

“When I was younger, my mother always kissed my bruises to make them feel better,” Mina explains. She bites her lip. “Was that… okay?”

It’s an excuse—a transparent one. It is not the first time that Sana has bruised her forehead, yet in all of their times growing up, of Sana making a fool out of herself, Mina has never done anything like _that_ before. Not until now.

Sana’s mouth opens and closes, heart racing much too fast for her to think properly, and she means to say something like ‘yes, of course’—but before she can speak, Mina is uncharacteristically stuttering apologies for something she didn’t do wrong and turning heel down the hill.

The peach lies forgotten on the ground.

-

They don’t speak of the incident.

It isn’t intentional, but it isn’t as though Sana knows how to broach the topic, either. What is there to say? She could apologize for being so tongue-tied, for getting inappropriately flustered, but that would mean bringing to attention the growing tension between them that she isn’t even sure there is.

Sana is a vassal; Mina, her liege. They cannot—should not—be anything more than that.

-

They are both eighteen when Mina drops the news:

“Sana, I might be getting married soon.”

Mina’s voice is soft, barely above a whisper, as though anyone could be listening to them. They’re alone together late at night in the tea ceremony room, moonlight diffusing through the screen doors, candles lit at the corners. The birds outside have long quieted their song. Sana stokes the kindling in between them, watching as steam rises from the kettle spout.

Midnight is hardly a proper time for one to be consuming green tea, but Mina had insisted that Sana be her companion to practice hosting, lest she grow rusty. The last time they’d spent any sort of time together feels like an eternity ago, anyhow. Between Mina’s diplomacy lessons and Sana’s training, there just hasn’t been any time to _talk_.

If only Sana had known _this_ would be the topic of conversation. Her jaw tightens.

Sana observes Mina from across the room. The flame of the firewood distorts the image of her expression, like a wrinkle in time and space, but Sana can still see the downcast look on her face, the guilt that dances behind her eyes. Sana inhales, contemplating. Marriage is bound to happen sooner or later. Mina will not remain unstained by the blood of politics forever, and soon the results of Sana’s training will be put to use. Soon, she will have to kill for Mina, even as she lies with another man.

The silence stretches on. In the absence of conversation, the gentle pop-crackle of fire and the rumble of boiling water fill the void. When several beats have gone by without Sana saying a word, Mina takes the kettle and pours the water into a ceramic bowl, grasping a bamboo whisk to mix another bowl of matcha. The scrape of ceramic adds yet another layer of white noise that crowds Sana’s head.

“Congratulations, Myoui-sama,” Sana finally forces herself to say. She bows, spine parallel to the floor, so that Mina cannot see her expression. Sana does not trust herself to look anything but crestfallen.

This time, Mina does not protest the formal way that Sana addresses her. They are at home, and the walls are thin. But it is obvious, in how Mina’s knuckles turn white, that she is holding herself back from saying anything.

When Sana rises to face her again, she asks, “When is the omiai?”

“The day after tomorrow. We will depart in the early morning and head westward to the Hyogo Prefecture.” 

“Hyogo Prefecture…” Sana echoes, racking her brain for the significance of such a territory. Her eyebrows shoot to her forehead when the realization dawns on her. “So the meeting will be at the Himeji Castle? I thought the daimyo clan there considers themselves rivals to the Myoui clan?”

“It seems that father has come to an agreement with them recently,” Mina explains, sliding a cup of green tea across the floor to Sana. “And if the meeting goes well, I am to wed the eldest son of that daimyo to secure the political alliance.”

“I see.” Sana grasps the cup in her hands, thanking Mina, before bringing it to her lips. The tea scalds her tongue, running down her throat like lava as she swallows, the taste strong and bittersweet. Sana does not allow herself to wince. Instead, she grins, praying that it does not come off as too strained. “I hope, for your sake, that he is good-looking,” she says, schooling the teasing note in her voice so that her words do not betray her yearning. Sana forces down the rise of acid in her chest with another burning sip, as though the tea might cleanse her of the unease that she feels.

Mina smiles back, but joy is vacant from her eyes. “Yes, I hear that he is.”

-

Being the heiress to a powerful daimyo clan governing a port town, Mina has always carried an aura of loneliness with her.

In the midafternoon as Sana escorts Mina and her family through the castle town of the Hyogo Prefecture to the omiai, she sees it with her own two eyes, the way Mina’s isolation follows her like a shroud. The townsfolk disperse like ants at their arrival. Samurai vassals march by their sides, an impenetrable wall. It is impossible to see what Mina looks like through the guard that flanks her, but Sana has always been lucky enough to assist in dolling her up. Not many are worthy enough to see the beauty that Mina is today: dressed in a long, flowing kimono; vibrant kanzashi flowers lining her hair; makeup white and pristine.

As the silent guardian of the Myoui family, Sana follows the group at a respectable distance, masquerading as a plain handmaiden. She’s dressed in drab, nondescript clothing, with naught but a folding fan tucked in her obi. Underneath, her worn yukata conceals a ring of kunai strapped to her waist, blades coated with poison. Like her late family, as a Minatozaki, she serves the Myoui clan as the eye on the back of their heads—always watching, waiting.

As the Myoui family strides by the townspeople—artisanal merchants and their children—Sana notes the extreme angle at which they bow: it is too acute, too sharp, to be a simple display of reverence. More likely, it is a sign of fear rather than respect. Surely enough, the moment they pass out of view, the smack of sliding screens slamming shut resonates throughout the district—a conspicuous show of people cowering and fleeing back into their homes as soon as it is proper.

Sana has always thought that Myoui Nagayoshi-sama gets off on it, the proud man that he is, but she always catches the forlorn look in Mina’s eyes as she stares behind at the sight of the empty streets, barren of any life.

The common folk fear what Mina is capable of doing one day, but Sana has known her liege since she was a nine-year-old girl, timidly hiding behind her mother; has been there when Mina buried her face into Sana’s arms, crying after the first lashing she’d received from her parents; has watched her spill boiling water on herself from a kettle, botching her first attempt at a tea ceremony. Sana has seen many of Mina’s worsts—and there is no one else more intimately acquainted with the Myoui heiress, with the story behind how she’d blossomed from that awkward child into the beautiful, young woman that she is today.

Had they been alone, Sana would have offered a word of comfort. Would have told Mina that she is more than what people see, that she is more than just the daughter of a ruthless daimyo. But as it is, Sana is accompanying Mina to a meeting with her potential future husband, a young samurai and son of a daimyo hailing from a rival shogunate. So long as they are in company of eminent people, of _men_, Sana’s opinion will cease to matter.

Their trip takes them to a sizable castle perched on the top of a hill. The grand building, a colossal fortress overlooking the town and its inhabitants, is almost oppressive in the way its white plaster walls reflect the blinding sunlight. At the end of the moat, a man donned in imposing samurai armor welcomes their arrival.

“It is good to see you, Nagayoshi,” he says. The lamellar cuirass upon his chest gleams a severe red, and the helmet atop his head bears a crest forged out of solid gold—a stark contrast to the pristine white of the castle walls. So this is the daimyo of the Hyogo Prefecture.

By his side is a handsome young man—the eldest son, Sana presumes—who offers them a gentle, earnest smile. Something in Sana’s throat catches the longer she appraises him. As Mina’s invisible right-hand woman, discerning malicious intent is by far the most important part of her duty. In all her years of training as a kunoichi, Sana has learned to read the most minuscule of signs—any twitch of a finger, the direction in which one’s eyes look. From him, there is nothing. Not a bit of insincerity.

He is perfect for Mina.

As the Myoui samurai guards part to allow their hosts to see their guest of honor, the daimyo’s son bows. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” Even the sound of his voice is aggravatingly comforting, smooth and without a hint of grain or gruff.

Sana turns to look at her liege, to gauge her reaction, but it is a mistake that she regrets instantly. At the sight of a shy smile tugging at Mina’s lips—the same shy smile that is no longer meant for Sana alone—the lump in her throat drops to the pit of her belly like an anvil. Her stomach churns. The kunai pressed to her waist begin to feel cumbrous.

“No, the pleasure is mine,” Mina says, genuinely, and Sana’s heart breaks.

-

On the eve before Mina’s wedding, the house maids practice their preparations in her bedroom.

For the first time, Sana does not take part in dressing her up. Back when they’d been children, that had been Sana’s favorite thing to do with Mina, helping her put on the prettiest of clothes and doing her hair in the fanciest of buns. Conveniently, fashion is the point in which her duty as a kunoichi and her knowledge as a woman intersect. To be an effective female assassin, it is a necessity to know how to be both beautiful and charming, to lull men into a false sense of security. It makes her job all the more effortless when men go glossy-eyed at the sight of an alluring debutante. Predictable, foolish creatures.

Now that they are both grown women—both nineteen years old—the simple times of playing dress-up are long gone. Sana is a full-fledged kunoichi, and as such, she cannot partake in such whimsical activities anymore. As a Minatozaki, she must fulfill her duty of protecting her liege, ever watchful of the proceedings by the corner of the room, eyes keen for any crafty misdeeds from the stylists. 

When it is clear there is no threat, Sana allows herself to enjoy the view of the proceedings. Mina’s hair has grown long, just past the small of her back. The maids take their time braiding it, then twisting the locks into a neat bun, held fast by a golden comb. After her hair is done, the stylists begin to powder her neck and face, dabbing at her skin to prepare her for the foundation of the white makeup. A paintbrush is dipped in a waxy mixture of rice powder and water before it is applied first on her chest, then coated all the way across her neck to the rest of her face. Once the makeup dries, her eyebrows are filled in, red eyeliner layered on the edge of her eyelids, and the look is completed by the final touch of crimson lipstick. 

The stylists step back to admire their handiwork, and Sana breathes in at the sight of her liege. She had been there when Mina had begun her ambitious sewing project—her very own grand wedding dress, a pink furisode embroidered with intricate floral patterns—but seeing Mina wear it now is a different story altogether. The way the dress hugs Mina’s curves, the way the obi is drawn tight against her stomach, the way the long sleeves of her furisode pool at her sides like a waterfall—it all draws out the essence of her delicate nature, the beauty of her stature. A perfect picture of elegance.

A perfect picture, rather, of a regal and submissive wife.

“You look beautiful, Myoui-sama,” says one of the stylists, echoing Sana’s very own thoughts. Another pulls up a mirror for Mina, who smiles approvingly at her reflection.

“Thank you,” Mina replies, lowering her head bashfully, hands clasped together in front of her obi. “I appreciate the work you all have done this evening.”

“Then, it is satisfactory?” a maid asks.

“Yes.”

“Please, allow us to clean—”

“That is all for today,” Mina says, firmly. “Thank you.”

Sana blinks at the sudden dismissal, and the stylists themselves cast inquisitive looks at each other, wondering if it is truly alright to leave the heiress in such a state before bedtime. They know better, though, than to question the daughter of the Myoui daimyo, the soon-to-be wife of another powerful lord, so it is within minutes that they all gather their supplies and scurry out of Mina’s room.

As Sana moves to depart along with them, Mina’s voice halts her.

“You don’t have to leave, Sana,” she says, but it comes out more like a plea. Something less like ‘_it’s okay for you to stay_’ and more like ‘_don’t go._’

“What would you have me do, Myoui-sama?” Sana asks, hands clenching the hilt of the sword at her side. It is painful to be in the same room as her, to see the very image of what Mina will be when she is wed to another man tomorrow. The sight is already ingrained into her memory, like a freshly engraved woodblock art canvas, but Sana would rather not subject herself to looking at her more than is necessary.

“It’s Mina,” her liege insists yet again, pouting. The sight of the Myoui heiress, her puffed-up face caked in white, is nothing but absurd. It’s certainly one way to ruin the image of elegance.

For the first time that evening, Sana allows herself to laugh, to find humor in her situation. Just like that, the illusion of Mina being beyond her reach shatters; in that instant, Sana feels like she is back to being her friend again—and less of a subordinate.

Still, even after everything, Mina has the gall to act like this with her. Astonishingly, Sana finds that she is not angry. “We’re not children anymore, you know. We both will have to get used to me calling you ‘Myoui-sama’ more often, especially after you are married,” she chides, though her words are not without mirth. “Who knew that you could be so clingy?”

“I am not clingy,” Mina protests, crossing her arms indignantly. “We’ve known each other for most of our entire lives. Is it so strange to want my childhood friend to address me normally?” Amazingly, Mina’s cheeks puff up even further, and it sends Sana into another laughing fit.

When she catches her breath, she plops herself next to Mina, poking her cheek. Air pops out of her mouth. “Perhaps not, but it is clingy that you would kick out a gaggle of your own personal servants just to have some alone time with me,” Sana reasons.

“Perhaps it is,” Mina finally concedes, taking Sana’s hand into her own, and Sana has to do a double take at the candid admission, at the brazen way Mina interlaces their fingers together. With her free hand, Mina traces the veins running along the underside of Sana’s wrist. “I missed you. You’ve been so distant lately.”

Sana swallows. There it is: the nod at the unspoken tension between them, the very thing she had sworn three years ago never to broach the topic of. Sana can feel, in the thickness of the air, the way it’s all about to snap, like a needle approaching a bubble. “Preparations to unify your families are demanding and time-consuming,” she responds, evasively. Her skin tingles where Mina touches her, palms growing sweaty.

When Mina lets out a small scoff, Sana knows that her answer is an unsatisfactory one. Mina doesn’t push it, though. Instead, she draws them closer, pulling Sana in by the waist so that she can rest her head on her shoulder. Sana’s breath stills. It’s dangerous, to be so close to Mina like this, but Sana finds that she doesn’t want to leave. Would it really be so bad, to indulge in the comfort? Maybe her ancestors will forgive her just this once, if it is Mina who makes the first move.

She does.

“Help me undress and bathe?” Mina asks. The request, were it from a normal liege to vassal, would have been innocuous enough. But they are more than that—it is foolish to deny the truth any longer—and such a request carries loaded implications.

Sana exhales, heart hammering in her chest. She makes her decision. “Of course.”

She pulls out the wooden wash basin and sets it atop the iron grille above the stack of firewood. Taking her flint and steel, Sana strikes at the sharp edges until sparks catch on the kindling, smoke rising and flames billowing from the dead twigs. Beside her, Mina is already pulling at the ribbon of her obi, and Sana turns her head away respectfully as the front of her furisode parts open, exposing a dangerous amount of skin.

“It’s okay to look.”

Heat rises to Sana’s neck; she is sure it is not due to the growing fire or the steam that rises from the basin. Her body betrays her. Before she can stop herself, she finds her eyes raking over Mina’s chest: from the stark line at which the white makeup ends and her bare skin begins, to the swell of her breasts, to the hardening peaks of her nipples. It is not the first time Sana has seen Mina nude before—far from it—but it’s different when Mina is purposefully baring her body to her, all but commanding her not to look away.

The water begins to boil, bubbles popping up on the surface. Sana dips a hand towel into the basin, squeezing out the excess moisture before pressing it to Mina’s chest. The makeup comes off easily, the mixture diffusing in the moisture, dripping like watercolor down her skin and to the flat of her stomach. Sana catches it with the cloth, backtracking and brushing back up to the underside of her breasts, just grazing her nipples. Mina lets out a quiet sigh at this, but Sana doesn’t allow herself to react beyond reflexively squeezing her legs together at the rush of warmth pooling to the pit of her belly.

Sana bites the inside of her mouth and pushes onward. She drags the towel to Mina’s face, wiping in a circular motion from chin to forehead, revealing the color of her naked skin at an excruciatingly slow pace. Eventually, her movements center in on Mina’s lips. Her hands still, fingers shaking against her control. She holds her breath. Her eyes flicker back and forth, from Mina’s eyes to her mouth.

Where Sana hesitates, Mina does not.

She tastes Mina before she can feel her on her lips. The bittersweet flavor of green tea clings onto her tongue when Mina licks into her mouth, one hand sliding to the back of Sana’s neck and pushing them closer together; the other, taking Sana’s and placing it on her chest. Sana moans into her, squeezing at her breast experimentally, relishing in how soft and supple Mina is.

At the cry Mina gives, something in Sana snaps, like a floodgate bursting open.

Mina’s furisode does not make it to the bed.

-

It is just before the dawn of Mina’s wedding day by the time they finish making love. 

“Sana,” Mina begins, when she’s finally caught her breath. They’re both so sticky and sweaty still, but that doesn’t stop Mina from pulling Sana’s arms around her so that their bodies remain flush together. “Do you think I will make a good leader?”

Sana leans forward, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. “There’s no doubt in my mind, Mina.”

“Will you stay by my side?”

“For as long as I breathe.”

A few minutes pass, the break of sunrise peeking through the windows. It hits Mina’s face first, and Sana admires in wonder at the way her irises catch the rays of light, reflecting vibrant amber hues. The color of sunlight at dawn.

“I’m sorry, Sana. For how things are.”

“Don’t be.”

“I hope you know, that in another life, I’d always choose you.”

“I know. Maybe in another life, we will be happy.”

“Wait for me, then.”

“I will.”

In the end, there are no words left to say. Instead, Mina brushes back Sana’s bangs and kisses her forehead.

-

Four years later, Sana dies by a dagger to the gut meant for Mina.

* * *

_Forward._

Lifetimes later, in the lives where Sana does remember, she will always regret never loving Mina properly.

Their existence together during feudal Japan is not the first time that Sana dies for Mina. Nor is it the last. There are many other instances where Sana’s life gets cut short protecting her: by a stray arrow, the taste of a biscuit laced with cyanide poisoning, the claw of a hungry bear.

Other times, it is not the fault of Sana’s untimely death that prevents them from being happy together. Sometimes, it is Sana’s own inability to remember until it is too late, like when she watches another person—be it their mutual friend or a stranger—slip an engagement ring onto Mina’s finger. It’s a form of torture, Sana thinks, that her memories seem only to get unlocked either by a piercing stomach wound or by witnessing the love of her past life elope happily with someone else.

Sana only hopes that Mina’s triggers are not as cruel.

-

Sometimes only Mina remembers. Sometimes only Sana remembers.

In truth, back at the cottage, it is a rare instance in which they _both_ remember and have the good fortune to actually meet.

Mina does not waste the opportunity to plead with her. They do not have much time. In several hours, her allies will storm the cottage and find her fraternizing with the enemy. If Sana does not die from her bullet wound first, then her allies will shoot her point blank and finish the job. They will arrest Mina, too, for the crime of desertion.

“I want you to live, Sana,” she says, hoping that her words will carry onto their next lives and thereafter. “Even if we do not end up together, even if we never meet. I want you to stop being such a martyr. We didn’t agree to meet again and again just so we could repeat the cycle of our first life.”

“Okay,” Sana agrees. “Okay. You’re right. Let’s get it right next time.”

* * *

_Forward._

Lifetimes later, in the lives where Sana does not remember, she never figures out _why _she’s so zealous when it comes to chasing after girls.

In this particular life, when she is an idol in South Korea, she’s aware how painfully obvious she is with public displays of affection towards the other members of her group. Perhaps she should be more careful; people are always watching, and it would be selfish of her to sabotage their life’s work for something as silly as a same-sex scandal. People are oblivious, though. The beauty of being a girl is that she can do something as blatant as slap Momo’s ass and people will still say it’s platonic.

Maybe this habit, this overwhelming desire to give and receive affection, has something to do with being an only child. Sana thinks it’s something else, a nagging feeling in the back of her head that tells her she’ll miss her chance if she doesn’t take it immediately. Either way, it is a crime, Sana thinks, not to let her other members know that she loves them wholeheartedly.

It is probably why, during one performance of _TT_, something compels her to brush back Mina’s bangs and kiss her forehead.

“What was that for?” Mina asks her once they are alone backstage.

Sana only smiles, not quite certain herself. “Because I looove you, Minari!” she proclaims, because at least that doesn’t sound crazy, unlike saying something akin to ‘_I feel like I owe it to you._’ She pulls Mina into a back hug, letting herself indulge in the scent of Mina’s jasmine perfume.

Mina melts into the hug, laughing, a gummy smile on her face. "I love you, too, Sana."

It becomes a sort of tradition, kissing Mina’s forehead during each _TT_ performance. Every time Sana does it, she feels like she’s getting closer and closer to the answer that’s been clawing its way to the forefront of her consciousness.

In the end, Sana never quite figures it out, never quite remembers. But she is content.

* * *

_Forward._

It takes thousands of years, for the migration of humanity from Earth to the rest of the Milky Way, for them to finally get it right.

During one of her midnight patrols through the space station, Sana catches the whiff of peaches and jasmine. Instantly, she’s sent back in time; it is incredibly reptilian, how something as simple as scent can activate the ancient secrets of her amygdala, forcing her to remember hundreds of lifetimes all at once, unbidden. Without wasting a second, Sana rushes to the hydroponics bay where she catches sight of a woman dressed in all black, tip-toeing across the aluminum-plated flooring and twisting her body to dodge the laser sensors. Impressively, she manages to carry an armful of plump peaches plucked from the greenhouse chambers without even dropping any. As usual, even in this life, she is inhumanly flexible.

This time, when Sana’s past memories come forward, it feels less like getting drowned by a tsunami and more like the simple flip of a light switch, revealing things that are already there. It’d odd, though. She still remembers her current life, that she should probably be stopping Mina instead of just staring at her.

When all is said and done, though, all Sana wants to do is run toward Mina and hug her.

“Mina!” she finally calls out, once her memories settle in. 

The woman in black startles at the shout of her name. The peaches tumble from her grasp. In her surprise, a red laser catches the back of her heel. The space station’s alarm systems start to blare, shrill and jarring.

Mina smiles sheepishly at Sana, caught like a deer in headlights. “There you are, Sana. Hi. I’m a space pirate. Do you want to defect and join me?”

Sana laughs. They have been through so many lives by now, that it is refreshing to skip over the formalities, the tedious little dance of wondering if the other remembers.

“Well,” she says, turning on the sights of her laser pistol, getting ready to aim at her former comrades. “I have no choice now, do I?”

-

They spend the rest of their lives together as pirates, raiding space station after space station, procuring the finest of fruits and flora from the rich, taking the time to cultivate new life on the barren landscapes of the Milky Way planets. Over the years, word spreads throughout the galaxy of their deeds: Minatozaki Sana and Myoui Mina, the contemporary Robin Hood duo.

They are happy.

* * *

_Backwards._

At the Galápagos Islands, in her early-morning walks along its shores, Sana finds herself looking eastward.

There’s something pleasant about watching the sunrise, witnessing as the first signs of daybreak peek into the horizon, the blazing orange hues seeping into the blues of the fading night, like a rush of watercolor spreading throughout the sky. It’s in times like these where she can actually relax, let the cacophony of city life fade away into the recesses of her memory. Maybe, had she chosen to be a songwriter, she would have written about the vermillion alpenglow tingeing the silhouettes of mountain peaks across the ocean waters, the gentle drops of dew clinging onto scalloped leaves, the thickness in the air promising a future of unforgiving humidity.

But in this life, she is an ornithologist.

In this life, trips across the world are both an excuse to enjoy the scenery and a chance to continue her research on birds. While relaxing on the beaches of the Galápagos Islands has been enough of a break from everything, tranquility is still a scarcity these days, especially with Momo tagging along on her trip. She adores Momo, but Sana has long since given up on keeping mental tallies of how often her friend has botched her bird-watching expeditions: tripping over the smallest of sticks, screaming at the tiniest of bugs, griping about the barest welts of sunburn—the list goes on.

But mornings are safe. Mornings are quiet, beautiful. Mornings are when she can close her eyes and listen to birdsong undisturbed, soak in the rays of early sunshine as the stars fade away with the onset of day.

Mostly, though, Sana just likes to admire the color of sunlight at dawn with a steaming hot cup of green tea and a plump peach.

At six o’clock a.m. sharp, Sana steps out of her cabin and hauls a bucket of fresh fish over her shoulders, slapping on a sunhat, ready to embark on a trek down to the docks. It’s a ten-minute walk to where her boat is stationed. Today, she will take an expedition out to the ocean to explore the islands and uncover their avian secrets.

As usual, when Sana approaches the entrance to the docks, there is a penguin perched next to the boardwalk, chirping perkily at the sight of her arrival as if it’s been waiting for her. Sana grins, setting down the bucket before slipping on a pair of gloves, grabbing the fattest fish in the pail, and beckoning the penguin forward. The penguin waddles toward her, passing by the proffered meal entirely, choosing instead to nuzzle its feathered body to her legs.

Sana laughs, feeling the skin around her eyes crinkle. “Hello to you, too, Mina. Are you well today?”

**Author's Note:**

> _daimyo_ \- in Japanese history, one of the great feudal lords who were vassals of the shogun  
_shinobi_ \- ninja  
_kunoichi_ \- female ninja  
_Ezochi_ \- modern day Hokkaido  
_omiai_ \- a formal meeting in which a man and woman consider the possibility of marriage  
_obi_ \- a sash worn with a kimono  
_furisode_ \- a style of kimono distinguishable by its long sleeves
> 
> -
> 
> Hello, everyone! This is my first (and likely last) Twice fic, in just on time for their fourth anniversary. Honestly, I was a bit nervous tackling this work, as I'm quite rusty with my writing (the last work I posted was in 2016... yikes...) and I'm also quite new to the fandom. An incredible [misana fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17599223) had me shook, though, so I felt inspired to dig up one of my old unpublished wips from another fandom that I'd written for a different friend (whose favorite ship is misana as well, coincidentally) and rehash it. (Jess, if by any chance you ever read this fic, this goes out to you, too!)
> 
> I really hope I did Sana and Mina's dynamics here justice! It's always been my dream to contribute to a rarepair tag. (Y'all know how much suffering I went through, feeding myself with misana crumbs as I wrote???)
> 
> Also, I don't really post much on twitter, but feel free to follow me at [@jiuwuming](https://twitter.com/jiuwuming)! As always, comments and feedback are more than welcome! Thank you so much for reading!


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